


little soldier boy come marching home

by mischievousmurmurs



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Other, focusing on friendship, like how they became friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 12:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9124624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischievousmurmurs/pseuds/mischievousmurmurs
Summary: A Russian Fairy, they will call him, but you know better.The blond boy at the barre, the little child soldier, is how you will remember him.Otabek Altin meets Yuri Plisetsky at Yakov's training camp, and Yuri makes an impression on him, although Otabek fails to return the favour at that moment.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi omg thanks for taking the time to click on this fic!
> 
> It's my first YOI fic, and also my first attempt at M/M, which explains why there's not much M/M, but focuses on the beginning of their friendship heh.
> 
> //hides in the corner
> 
> anyway, i hope you'll like it!

It’s interesting to watch the little blond boy standing at the middle of the barre, you think, as you’re called by Yakov, yet again, who is trying to correct your posture, to be more flexible, to raise your head higher.

 

 _Maybe anything would be more interesting than getting another reprimand_ , a little voice in the back of your head tells you, and you shove it away as best you can. You stand out in this class, and it eats at the bottom of your stomach, to have Yakov tell you that maybe you should start from the novice class when you’re due to debut at the Junior level stings your chest and your pride just a bit.

 

And even then, even placed with the children,—save for that little blond boy at the barre—some of which are just starting out, you stick out like a sore thumb: inflexible and stocky among the other lean, pliable students, who giggle behind their palms and continue with their practice as Yakov places his full (and dreaded) attention on you.

 

You flew out to Russia, chosen amongst your class as one of the best, gifted skaters, to have the opportunity to learn from Yakov’s training camp, and you can’t help but feel like you’ve let yourself down somehow. Not only can’t you keep up with those your age, you’re not even up to par with the novice class.

 

You’re honestly _trying._ You’re trying _so hard_. You grit your teeth and try not to let anyone notice your panic, your distress, your disappointment at yourself for failing. _They’re already laughing at you_ , the voice warns, _don’t let them see you break._

 

So you do what you usually do whenever you feel the sting of tears and the ache in your chest: you attempt to focus on something else. You’re still listening to Yakov’s comments, because that’s not the thing distressing you, it’s the gigging of the girls in the corner of the room stretching and the groaning of that group going _when will Yakov realize that he’s a gone case?_ and it’s while you’re surveying the room from what limited point of view you have that you see a flash of blond in the mirror.

 

He’s standing behind you, but you watch him from the mirrored in front of you, the grace and poise of his hand movements and sharp turns, each step perfectly precise. Yakov looks behind you, nodding, but he calls out for the boy to smile. Even as he complies, his eyes remain determined, focused, set on his goals, and you remember why you’re standing there. Why the both of you are standing there.

 

So when Yakov asks if you want to try again, much to the chagrin of everyone in the room, you nod, looking him in the eye. _Yes, sir_.

 

Although it’s not perfect, your attempt this time is not as riddled as mistakes as your previous tries. You close your eyes as you turn, and as you visualize the little blond boy’s movements in your mind, your body moves of its own accord, trying to emulate the posture, the fluidity, the grace of the boy at the barre. The boy who moved like a ballerina but had eyes far more mature, far more determined than others his age, and it is by visualizing him and projecting the image in your mind that you manage to complete your seventh attempt of the day. Yakov spares you a small smile and a pat on the shoulder. _There’s improvement._

 

As much as you want to smile and sigh your relief, you don’t. The blond boy at the barre, the little child-soldier, deserves that much respect for being—regardless of whether he knows it or not—your source of encouragement. You look up at the mirror, and for a moment, your breath is taken away.

 

The little blond child soldier, for some reason, had stopped his routine, and with one hand on the barre, he’s looking at you. You realize that he must have paused to look at your routine, and before you have the chance to feel embarrassed, he catches your eye in the reflection of the mirror, and offers you a nod of approval. _Good job,_ he mouths, before he turns and marches off to the corner of the room where all the bottles are placed for a water break.

 

As Yakov wraps up his thoughts on how you can continue to work on the routine and polish up the parts that you’re still a bit shaky on, you see the boy picking up what must be his bottle, but he continues to survey the other bottles around him, as if he’s looking for something in particular. When he finds it, his eyes light up. While the boy picks up your bottle, nodding to himself, Yakov dismisses you to do basic stretching and work on self-practice, and when you nod and turn around, you see that he’s holding it to you as if he’s beckoning you over.

 

Like a recruit, you walk over to him, as if he’s the commanding officer and you are the subordinate, although its not with resignation, it’s with utmost respect and reverence for this boy’s grace, strength and kindness. _You’re being sappy, Altin,_ the voice says, but you choose to ignore it in favor of placing your only ally—discounting Yakov, but he doesn’t count, he’s your coach for this camp—in a good light. You really, _really_ want him to be a good person.

 

And it is this hopeful thought that stops you from remembering why you were cautious in the first place, that results in your heart feeling like it plummeted to the ground as you walk from one end of the room to the other.

 

In accented English just loud enough for you to realize that it’s directed at you, a boy pipes up, _Oh, finally done hogging Yakov, then?_ You stop in your tracks and bite the inside of your mouth, willing your chest to stop aching. The girl beside him giggles and flips her hair. _Aren’t you supposed to be with the Junior group, instead of with the Novice class?_

The boy scoffs. _Hah, like they would want him, that class is for actual talent like Victor Nikiforov and Georgi Popovich, not him._

_Besides,_ he adds, saying it almost like an afterthought, _he can barely make it into this class, let alone with the other group._

 

The words ring in your mind and feel like a knife cutting into your heart, and you can’t even find it in you to just walk away. You just stand there, rooted to the ground, anchored down by their words, as well as the words of doubt swimming in your mind. _They’re right. You don’t deserve to be here, you’re just wasting everyone’s time. Yakov could be coaching the other students, those brimming with talent, rather than wasting his time with you._

 

You’re surprised again, when something is shoved into your hands, forceful enough to shake you from your thoughts, but not to make you show any visible signs of shock. The blonde boy is looking at you, nodding at the bottle he just gave you. _Drink up._ He says, not unkindly, and in a voice more accented than the other two students. He’s younger up close, his features soft, unmarred by time, his green eyes clear and cold, and you wonder how it is that this boy’s eyes are so different from the rest of him.

 

You are proved wrong in the next moment.

 

“It’s not like you’re anywhere close to Victor or Georgi, in fact I’d say you borh are far from it. Alexei, weren’t you just told off by Yakov last week for not being able to perform a step sequence learnt when we were in the beginner’s class? And Vera, I recall that only three days ago you were the one taking up Yakov’s time attempting a sit spin.” The boy may have taken a longer time to get his words out, being younger and less fluent in English, but his tone is clear: he means business. “What authority do you think you have to be talking to him like that when you both are not even average skaters yourselves? Take care of yourself before you start ragging on others.”

 

Turning, the blond boy faces you again, and his hard features soften. “We see skaters that have been shaped by ballet everywhere. There’s no one way to skate. I skate how I want to, skate how it’s easier for me to do so. As long as you can continue being on the ice, as long as you _win,_ how you do it isn’t important.”

 

And something suddenly clicks for you. The blond boy, now done with his rant, turns back to Alexei and Vera, who look slightly chided. _What’s he to you, Yuri?_ Alexei demands, slightly put off at the blond boy’s defense of you. _Yeah,_ Vera chimes in, _why are you siding him?_

 

 _He’s a friend._ Yuri says, and something in you seems to let go and bloom in you. It’s strange, new, but you don’t seem to dislike it, no. You were always too busy practicing, skating, to make close friends, and it had never been something you needed. As long as you had the ice, as long as you could skate, you were satisfied. But now, you wonder why this feeling makes you feel so happy. Is this what friendship feels like?

 

 _Yuri! Vera! Alexei! Get back to practice!_ Yakov shouts from the opposite side of the room, and Yuri sighs but complies, placing his bottle down before looking up at you. _I meant what I said. You should think about it._

 

 _Thank you._ You manage to say before he walks back to his position at the barre, where the sunlight streaming in makes him look ethereal, otherworldly. _A Russian Fairy_ , they will call him, but you know better. _The blond boy at the barre, the little child soldier,_ is how you will remember him.

 

You take his word to heart. After the class has ended, you speak to Yakov, who agrees that perhaps ballet isn’t the best way for you to improve on your skating. In spite of this, Yakov is a good coach, and he wishes you all the best as he shakes your hand. You’ll miss him, you think, he did try to be kinder, knowing that you were in a foreign country.

 

Sitting in the taxi on the way to the airport, you feel a slight pang of regret for not being able to say goodbye to Yuri, at least. Your first friend, your ally, the little child soldier at the barre.

 

* * *

 

 It is half a decade later before you meet him again, this time in Barcelona, where the Grand Prix Finals are being held. You finally managed to make something of yourself, through your own means, through discovering yourself, and it is something you have always been grateful to that little blond boy for. You have watched his performances so far, and you are pleased to see that the fight in his eyes has not diminished. The fire seems to be burning brighter than ever in the cold green eyes of the little child soldier.

 

As you catch eye contact with him in the lobby after his heated exchange with JJ Leroy, you see the curiosity in his eyes, the questioning, and it jolts somewhere in you that _he doesn’t remember_. He doesn’t know who you are.

 

And maybe you should feel a bit upset, but you can’t find it in you to be anything but a slightly amused and mournful at this circumstance. It may not have been very long for you, perhaps, but you were a teenage boy when you had met him, as much as his demeanor reminded you of a soldier, he had been 10 when he had said you were friends. He had been a child when he offered his friendship on the line, and youth is forgetful. That doesn’t mean that the lack of you in his memory doesn’t hurt though.

 

You don’t fault him. You can’t. He has no obligation to remember you, after all, why would he bother to remember the boy from Kazakhstan who was meant to be in the Junior class but ended up in the Novice class, the boy who left early without so much as a goodbye. You hadn’t even managed to introduce yourself before your departure. Still, you can’t help but feel slightly disappointed, again, at the thought of losing your first friend, even before you actually got to know him.

 

But a part of you really wants for Yuri Plisetsky to recognize you, to be reunited with the first person you could really call your friend. You had been looking forward to meeting Yuri again, know both with the shared goal of doing everything you could on the ice to get glory: for yourself, for your family, for your country. The both of you are fighters, and the Grand Prix Final is your battleground. But what you really want, what you feel you can get from Yuri, is not just a comrade, or an ally, but a sense of belonging.

 

A taste of home.

 

It’s as you see him walk out of the lobby and his group of fangirls following him that you understand that you’ve already come to a decision.

 

* * *

 

 

_Are you going to be friends with me or not?_

_Yeah. Friends._

 


End file.
